


A Dangerous Practice

by fredbassett



Series: A Dangerous Liaison (The Musketeers - 2014) [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is drunk, the Red Guard are obnoxious, d’Artagnan is concerned (and in Chapter 2, Treville is exasperated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilmaniclaugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/gifts).



“Bet he’s just pissed all over his fucking boots!”

The group of Red Guards lounging around in the tavern laughed loudly as Athos walked unsteadily towards the vacant chair near the fire that he’d occupied before going outside to answer a call of nature.

The cardinal’s men been making provocative remarks all evening, but so far, much to d’Artagnan’s surprise, even Porthos hadn’t shown any signs of rising to their bait.

A moment later, one of the men kicked an unattended stool directly into Athos’ path. Athos stumbled, putting a hand out to steady himself, but he missed the wooden pillar and fell against its sharp edge, his unprotected shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

D’Artagnan winced. That had to have hurt like hell.

Porthos let out a rumble of disapproval and made to rise from his own chair, but Aramis leaned forward and rested his hand on the big man’s arm. “Leave it, he’ll not thank you for playing nursemaid.”

“He never does,” Porthos said, not taking his eyes off his friend. “Doesn’t mean he don’t need it at times.”

“I’m just not sure this is one of those times, my friend,” d’Artagnan heard Aramis murmur.

Athos pushed himself upright, his unruly sweat-soaked hair falling into his eyes. He dashed it back from his face and did his best to focus on Richelieu’s men.

“He’s had three bottles of wine,” d’Artagnan felt the need to point out.

“At least four,” Aramis corrected. “There was wine on his breath before he arrived tonight.”

D’Artagnan fought the urge to roll his eyes. Much as he admired Athos, the man’s propensity to seek refuge in alcohol was a dangerous vice, especially with the Red Guard ever on the look-out for trouble.

“The captain won’t thank us getting involved in another brawl.”

Porthos raised one scarred eyebrow. “Since when did you develop a conscience about beating the shit out of the little red-cloaked bastards? Anyway, Athos can take the lot of them in a fight.”

“Porthos, he can barely stand unaided.” D’Artagnan watched as Athos pushed himself away from the pillar and wobbled alarmingly, before glaring in the vague direction of his tormentors.

One of the guards raised his voice over the noise in the tavern. “If this is the best of their fucking regiment, heaven help the worst!”

A burst of raucous laughter followed the man’s words. One of his friends hawked loudly and spat a gobbet of thick phlegm at Athos’ face. The musketeer swayed sideways and fell against the pillar again. The phlegm missed him. Athos’ foot slid sideways on the straw-covered floor and tripped a fat man in a brown, homespun cloak who slopped his tankard of ale over the guard. The unfortunate man’s apologies were brushed aside in the interests of better sport as the guards advanced threateningly on Athos.

“Take it outside or I’ll ban the fucking lot of you!” the innkeeper yelled, making his voice heard easily over the clamour of voices in the crowded room.

As Black Jacques was an old soldier with a long memory, an impressive grasp of profanity in six different languages and a right hook like a mule’s kick, it took a very brave – or a very stupid – man to argue with him in The Wren. The innkeeper never made a threat he wouldn’t carry through and all his regular customers knew it. Those that didn’t would quickly find themselves nursing sore heads and looking for somewhere else to drown their sorrows.

“He can’t get as far as outside!” the guard laughed, reaching out to poke Athos in the chest.

Athos swayed again and the hand missed him. He mumbled something under his breath that d’Artagnan couldn’t catch, but whatever it was had clearly been uncomplimentary. The Red Guard pulled back his arm for a punch and promptly found it twisted up his back.

“I said, take it outside!” Black Jacques ordered. “Do you want me to piss in your ear to clear out the wax? No? Didn’t think so… Now fuck off, the lot of you!”

Athos turned without a word and started to weave his way to the door. The Red Guard glanced over his shoulder to his friends, emptied the rest of his ale down his mouth, and tossed the pot to one of the serving women who caught it and threw back a filthy look.

D’Artagnan started to rise, but once again found himself held back by Aramis. “Give them time,” his friend told him.

“He’s as pissed as a brewery rat and there are five of them,” d’Artagnan pointed out.

“So he’ll take at least three and we can fight over who gets to play with the other two,” Porthos said. “Not much sport in that, I’ll grant you, but it’s the best odds we’re likely to get tonight, unless anyone else fancies joining the fun.”

“We should be so lucky,” Aramis said, getting lightly to his feet and settling his hat of his head. “But beggars can’t be choosers, my friends.”

After gulping the last of his wine, d’Artagnan followed his friends as Athos walked unsteadily through the door, pausing a moment as the cold night air hit him, no doubt feeling much like the effect of a bucket of water over the head. He saw Athos stagger sideways into the street, his friend and mentor’s incapacity greeted by rude comments and yet more laughter. D’Artagnan clenched his teeth and wrapped his hand around his sword hilt. Richelieu’s minions would pay for this…

Even though the interior of The Wren had been as dark and smoky as ever, it still took d’Artagnan’s eyes a moment to adjust to the even greater darkness of the street, illuminated only by pale moonlight. His feet squelched in the muck of the road and a feral cat dashed in front of him in pursuit of a rat.

“Are you following me, gentleman?” Athos’ well-bred drawl held nothing more than polite enquiry, as he turned to face his pursuers.

“Just tryin’ to make sure you get home safely,” one of the men said, the look on his ferrety face betraying his scorn.

“Can’t have one of Treville’s little bum-boys getting lost in the dark, can we?” one of his friends added, trying – and failing – to imitate Athos’ cultured tones.

“How kind. Then I’ll bid you all good night…” Athos sketched a bow, causing considerable amusement as he wobbled alarming.

They were seconds away from a violent confrontation, and d’Artagnan tensed, ready to draw his sword as soon as any of the guards did. At his side, Porthos placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Not until we say so,” the big musketeer said, keeping his voice low. “Trust us.”

D’Artagnan did trust them, with his life, but this was Athos they were talking about, the man whose reliance on alcohol was known throughout the garrison. Granted, it never affected him whilst on a mission, but in his off-duty hours d’Artagnan had seen ample evidence of Athos’ problems, and had already helped carry his friend home on more than one occasion. It looked like this was shaping up to be another such night. From the look of him, Athos was barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other and the Red Guards knew it.

The one who had started the whole thing took a step away from his fellows and drew his sword. “That jacket looks too tight for you… it’s a warm night, here, let me help…” he said in a reasonable tone, but the slender length of steel in the hand gave the lie to his words as it flashed in the moonlight, aiming for Athos’ chest.

Porthos’ hand clamped down hard on d’Artagnan’s shoulder just as the seemingly impossible took place in front of his eyes. With the speed of a striking snake, Athos whipped his own sword free of its scabbard and parried the stroke, immediately countering with a thrust of his own in low line that pierced the fleshy part of the guard’s thigh, drawing a cry of mingled surprise and pain from him. The man promptly dropped his sword and clasped his hand over the wound, leaving two of his companions to unsheathe their own weapons and jump forward to meet Athos.

Although Athos’ eyes still held an unfocussed look, there was no mistaking the precision that had returned to his movements. His hands no longer shook and, almost too fast for the eye to follow, he’d drawn the dagger from its sheath on his back. He dropped into a fighting stance, legs slightly spread for balance, weight evenly distributed, his right foot forward, the left behind by about a shoulder’s width. Athos stood ready for the next man to take the place of his injured comrade.

“The bastard got lucky,” the second Red Guard growled, as he stepped forward. “That wasn’t nice,” he said to Athos. “You started it, pretty boy, don’t forget that. Let’s see what your face looks like another scar to match the one you’ve already got on that smart mouth of yours. Give you a bigger gob for cock-socking…”

At d’Artagnan’s side, Aramis sighed softly. “A tip, mon ami, if you’re going to fight, fight, don’t talk. Remember that, my young friend.”

Athos took a step forward, his blade flashing in the moonlight, and deftly cut the tie of the guard’s cloak so that it dropped down into the muck of the street.

“I would not wish for the garment to foul your sword arm,” he commented, in the reasonable tones of the exceedingly drunk.

Before the guard had the opportunity to respond, Athos struck quickly, cutting hard at the man’s exposed arm, giving him no time to adopt a defensive posture. The blade sliced through the material of his jacket and no doubt cut the flesh beneath, but how deeply, d’Artagnan could not say. The man cursed loudly and struck back, hard.

Athos parried easily and then cut upwards, parting the fastenings that held the jacket closed. “Your friend was right. It is a warm night for such activity. Let the air cool your chest, if not your head…”

As he spoke, his sword point moved swiftly, cutting a long slash down the man’s grubby linen shirt, exposing a hairy chest and leaving a thin trail of blood behind. The Red Guard swung his sword at Athos in return, fury making his movements imprecise and easily avoided, even by a man seriously worse the wear for drink.

“That’s how you fight and talk,” Porthos said approvingly.

The other Red Guards seemed almost mesmerised by Athos’ words and movements, then two of them unsheathed their swords and rushed him. Athos simultaneously parried a thrust with his dagger and fended off a cut with his sword blade, giving ground and promptly drawing one of his opponents into an over-extended lunge. His next thrust took one opponent in his unprotected side, even as he promptly disengaged from one attacker to counter a wild strike from the other.

“Do these idiots spend no time at all in practice?” Aramis enquired, drawing his dagger and digging some dirt from beneath a fingernail, whilst leaning against the half-timbered wall of The Wren.

D’Artagnan, tense as a wire, neither answered him nor took his eyes off the duel – no, he reminded himself, the brawl. There were more than two combatants involved, that made it a brawl. Musketeers never duelled, that would be illegal. But they sure as hell brawled a lot, and this was turning into one of spectacular proportions.

He could hardly believe that Athos was even managing to remain upright after the amount of wine he’d consumed, let alone contriving to stage as convincing a display of swordsmanship as d’Artagnan had ever witnessed. If Athos’ parries were fractionally sloppier than those he demonstrated in the training yard, it would have taken someone as attuned as he was to the other man’s fighting style to pick that up, and he doubted if the Red Guards had that level of experience or skill.

“He’s not going to leave any for us,” Porthos grumbled.

“He always was a greedy bastard,” Aramis agreed as Athos drove his sword deep into the shoulder of the third of his opponents, then promptly withdrew, disengaging long enough for him to locate the final man, who stood uncertainly to one side of his fellow guards.

Athos assumed a position of broad ward, his arm held off to the right of his body and slightly above parallel to the ground at shoulder height. A classic fighting stance.

The position might not seem to offer much protection but, as d’Artagnan was all too well aware, it helped to draw an opponent in closer in preparation for an offensive strike. The ward guarded well against cuts while still offering protection from thrust by both sword blade and dagger.

In the moonlight, Athos’ smile of pure pleasure was easily seen. He looked relaxed, like a man who had spent time with a lover, rather than being pitted against a series of opponents, their antipathy fuelled by drink. His slightly twisted smile told the Red Guards all they needed to know. If they wanted to stay alive, now was a good time to back off.

“We meant no harm…” the uninjured one said quickly, almost tripping over his words in his haste. “It was a joke, Musketeer, only a joke…”

Athos’ smile widened. “Of course, gentlemen, I am only too aware of that. If your words and actions had not been in jest, I can assure you that your throats would now be leaking blood, rather than your arms and legs, And, after four bottles of wine, I lack my normal precision, so maybe I would have struck more deeply than I intended…”

“’e always did ‘ave a way with words,” Porthos said, his arm now slung around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Fancy, right fancy.”

“Looks to me like they’ve had enough.” Aramis backed up his words with a boot to the arse of the man nearest him, who was pressing his cloak hard against the leaking wound in his leg.

The man stumbled and glared but the fight had gone out of all of Richelieu’s men, and they stumbled away, cursing under their breaths.

“I believe my parentage has just been impugned,” Athos remarked, with the over-stated precision of the exceedingly drunk.

“Your ears did not deceive you, my friend,” Aramis said. “Now are you going to let me look at that nick to your arm?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened. He’d been watching the fight closely and he’d been unaware that any of the guards had landed a hit.

“It’s a pin prick only,” Athos said, slurring his words for the first time since stepping out from the tavern. “And I have other matters to attend to, if you’ll excuse me…” With that, he turned away, took two unsteady steps towards the alley at the side of The Wren, then doubled over and spewed his guts into the already rank mess on the ground. The alley served as the tavern’s latrine, as well as being the emptying spot for any dwelling with windows opening on that side.

The sour smell of vomit mingled unpleasantly with the stake odours of piss and shit. D’Artagnan, who’d consumed less than half the amount of wine Athos had just thrown carelessly down his throat in the course of the evening, felt his own stomach coil in sympathy.

When Athos had finished retching and spitting, he straightened up, wiped his hand across his mouth and turned back to his friends. “Thank you for your support, gentlemen.”

Porthos grinned widely and clapped Athos hard on the back causing him to stagger and cough up. “Never doubted you for a moment. Had to make sure the whelp kept out of it, though.”

“We’d hate to lead him into bad ways,” Aramis commented, smiling widely at d’Artagnan.

“So d’Artagnan the trainee Musketeer is still funny?” d’Artagnan queried, already knowing the answer to his question.

“Absolutely!” Aramis said.

“Certainly is!” Porthos confirmed.

“As long as you still doubt your elders and betters,” Athos added.

D’Artagnan threw Athos a sharp look. “Had you really drunk four bottles of wine?”

A hurt puppy look settled on Athos’ pale face, wholly at odds with the predatory expression he’d displayed when in combat with Richelieu’s men. “I’m sorry to tell you this but I lied…” Athos’ smile held a mixture of apology and mischief, “…in truth it was five, not four.”

With that, Athos turned on his heel and set off in the direction of the garrison, rather than his own lodgings.

Porthos clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder again. “Your turn to make sure he gets back safely.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes theatrically. “While I’m gone you two can worm your way back in Black Jacques’ favour and get another bottle in.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is drunk, the Red Guard have been obnoxious, d’Artagnan is happy to hand over responsibility and Treville is exasperated.

Treville looked up from the mess of papers littering his usually tidy desk, only half-visible in the candlelight.

The sounds outside in the courtyard drew his attention; both the dragging footsteps and half-cajoling, half-exasperated voice were all too familiar.

As usual, D’Artagnan was trying to be reasonable, adopting the tone of a long-suffering parent trying to reason with a recalcitrant child. In contrast, Athos sounded amused, but the careful over-enunciation of his words told Treville all he needed to know.

His subordinate was the worse for wear from drink again and, from what Treville could hear of d’Artagnan’s attempts to reason with him, had an injury that needed attending to. The young Gascon had obviously decided that Athos was safer in his rooms at the barracks than at his own rarely-used lodgings, but whatever had happened clearly hadn’t needed Aramis’ finely-honed needlework skills.

Treville walked out onto the balcony and stared down into the darkened yard, lit my nothing more than moonlight.

Athos was standing at the foot of the stairs, swaying slightly, but managing to remain upright. D’Artagnan, facing him, had hands on hips and wore an exasperated expression.

“You’re your own worst enemy, you know that don’t you?” the young man said, in the rhetorical tones of someone not really expecting a reply.

“Then I’m clearly a more formidable one than our friends in the Red Guard,” Athos replied, remaining upright by what looked like force of will alone. “I shall have to remember not to get on my bad side.”

Treville winced at Athos’ first words. He’d been on the receiving end of enough complaints from Richelieu recently to last a lifetime and even the King’s patience was starting to war slightly thin on the subject.

Having delivered his own version of wit and wisdom, Athos took two paces to the foot of the steps and turned around, sinking heavily down and putting his head in his hands.

“Come on,” d’Artagnan urged. “Not far to go now, then all I need to do is wind a bandage around your arm and you can go to bed and sleep it off.”

“’m fine here.”

“No, you’re not. Come on, the faster we do this, the faster I can get back to keeping the other two out of trouble.”

“You’ve never managed to stay out of trouble in your whole life,” Athos retorted, with the sudden occasional clarity so often found in drunks and children.

D’Artagnan grabbed his friend’s hands and attempted to haul Athos to his feel.

Athos, however, had other ideas. “Going to stay here. ‘s nice here.”

Taking pity on his latest recruit, Treville leaned on the balcony rail and said,” I’ll take it from here, lad,”

D’Artagnan looked up guiltily, obviously wondering if Treville had heard the remark about the Red Guard. “I can deal with him, captain.”

“I’ve no doubt you can, but you’ve probably been dealing with him all night.” Treville walked down the steps and clapped a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Get off back to the others. I’ll make sure he gets patched up and put to bed. I’ll even make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.”

“I don’t think he’s got that much left to throw up, sir, He spewed most of it up after the…” D’Artagnan trailed off, looking far guiltier than Athos, who was now staring up at them with a faint air of injured innocence.

“After the fight?” Treville supplied. “I don’t doubt it. However, I would appreciate the rest of you staying out of trouble for what remains of the night.” Treville put his hands under Athos’ armpits and hauled him upright with practised ease. “Come on, let’s get you sorted out, then we can both get some rest.” He nodded to d’Artagnan who, relieved of responsibility, sensibly beat a hasty retreat out of the yard. To Athos, Treville said, “If I have to carry you, I’ll be annoyed.”

“I can walk,” Athos replied, with a failed attempt at a withering look.

“I’m sure you can. But whether you can climb stairs is another matter…”

With one hand on the balustrade and one on Treville’s shoulder, Athos managed the transition to the upper floor with surprising ease, but he nearly came to grief on an unexpected footstool in Treville’s private quarters. After manoeuvring Athos down onto a chair by the fire, Treville started to undo the fastenings on the front of his leather jacket.

“It’s only a pinprick.”

“It’s left an inch-wide hole in your jacket.”

“Madame Bonacieux will attend to that for me.”

“It’s not your jacket I’m concerned about. Now stop being difficult and let me see what’s happened to you. While I’m doing that, you can make your excuses for your latest violation of His Majesties edicts.”

“Nothing but a brawl.” Athos said, waving his right hand dismissively, and not quite managing to suppress a wince.

“How many of them were there?”

Athos thought for a moment, probably trying to work out if he’d been seeing double. “Five, I think.”

It was Treville’s turn to wince. “Plenty to go round.”

Athos looked up, mischief dancing in his vivid green eyes. “I fear I might have been a trifle selfish with my toys.”

Treville knew better than to question his lieutenant’s ability to deal with five opponents even after no doubt sinking enough wine to stop an angry bull in its tracks. He’d seen Athos practice often enough with both sword and musket whilst under the influence of alcohol. But even so, five was still an impressive tally. He made sure not to let that feeling show.

Slowly and carefully, he eased the black jacket off Athos’ strong shoulders and, eliciting a couple of mild curses, was able to draw it off, leaving behind a once-white linen shirt now stained with an unappealing mix of sweat and blood, with dribbles of red wine thrown in for good measure. The shirt followed the jacket onto the floor. If the laundry mistress got that clean she’d be deserving of more than thanks.

Blood had streaked Athos’ right upper arm, but he was correct, the wound was not deep, nor did it require stitching. Treville found a clean cloth, poured water over it from a jug on his chest of drawers and wiped off the blood. He made sure no fibres from Athos’ shirt had been driven into the cut and cleaned the wound itself with some cheap brandy before tying a bandage around Athos’ upper arm.

“You were lucky. An inch deeper and it would have been a different matter.”

“He was lucky. I was inattentive.”

Treville pushed Athos’ hair back off his face and ran his fingers through the unruly dark locks. “I should lock you in the guardroom until you sweat this lot out of your system.”

A slight smile curved Athos’ scarred lip, making him look both younger and more vulnerable. “I should prefer to spend the night in your bed.”

Treville’s hand fisted in the dark hair and he tugged Athos’s head back, exposing his throat. Athos remained unresisting under his hands. Treville ran his other hand over the dark hair on Athos’ chest, pausing to rub first one nipple then the other to pebbled hardness.

“I hope you’re intending to more than just tease,” Athos said, staring up through long, dark lashes that were the envy of many a woman.

“Not if it means risking you vomiting in my bed or over me.”

“I only did that once!” Athos looked outraged.

Treville continued to rub slow circles on his chest, the swordsman’s calluses on this hand rough against Athos’ skin but didn’t trouble to hide his grimace. “Once was enough, I can assure you. As foreplay, it leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Take pity on me, kind sir. I’ve been hard enough to knock holes in wood since I took the last of those idiots down.”

“As a seduction technique, that’s not much better. You got yourself into that situation, by rights I ought to leave you to get yourself out of it, not reward bad behaviour.” But despite his words, Treville knelt on the floor and hauled off Athos’ boots and socks.

Athos dropped his uninjured hand to the buttons at his crotch, flipping each of them open before getting unsteadily to his feet, using the arms of the sturdy chair as an aid to balance. He pushed down the supple leather, taking with it his linen underclothes, leaving him standing naked on the sheepskin rug in the flickering firelight, his hard cock jutting out of the nest of dark curls. He hadn’t been lying about the state of his arousal.

Treville grabbed the bottle of brandy he’d set down on the mantelpiece and picked up a small bowl. “One mouthful. Swill and spit. No swallowing.”

Athos looked pained, but did as he’d been bidden.

“And again.”

“Am I really not allowed to swallow?” The mischief was back, cutting through the haze of alcohol like a sharp knife through butter.

“Do as you’re told first, for once.” Treville refused to be seduced that easily. He also refused to kiss a man who’d recently vomited. Some standards had to be maintained.

He’d long since given up expecting the former Comte de la Fère to adhere to normal levels of discipline in the ranks and, despite the man’s frequent lapses, Athos never let his dependence on alcohol come between him and his duty. Treville allowed one hand to trail lightly down Athos’ back, feeling the ridged scars he’d left on the other man’s flesh on the notable occasion when he had believed – wrongly – that there had been a dereliction of duty. Since then, Treville had promised himself that there would be no hasty judgments, despite occasional considerable provocation.

Athos rolled the second mouthful of brandy around then spat into the bowl again. Treville rewarded him with a third mouthful for himself in the hope that it would go some way to settling the remains of the sour wine than was no doubt roiling in the other man’s guts.

“Fresh as a daisy,” Athos commented, huffing brandy fumes into Treville’s face with what could only be described as a grin.

Whatever demons had driven Athos into the arms of his liquid mistress had clearly been mostly dispelled by the fight, leaving him in one of his rare lighter moods. Treville would have given a great deal to see him like that more often.

“You stink of stale wine, leather and sweat.”

The grin broadened. “Then it’s fortunate you’re a soldier and not one of the queen’s ladies.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Treville agreed, before pulling Athos into a hard kiss.

What the kiss lacked in finesse, it made up for in intensity. Treville tasted the cognac as his tongue duelled with Athos’, gaining entrance after a distinctly half-hearted parry. One hand stayed tangled in the damp hair while his other dropped down to stroke the hard cock pressed against his thigh, no doubt adding to the collection of stains already present on his soldier’s leathers.

Athos gasped against his mouth.

Treville pulled back, staring into eyes that were now darkened by lust, the centre spread so wide that only a rim of green remained visible.

“If I get one single word of complaint about tonight’s activities from Richelieu, you’re on latrine duty for a week.”

“They’ll keep quiet,” Athos said smugly. “By now they’ll have bribed a whore to say they were acting in her defence against a horde of ruffians.”

Knowing Athos was almost certainly right, Treville stood back and waved his hand to the bed. He had no intention of ending up on the floor in a failed attempt to manoeuvre the man backwards to the same spot. He was not a courtier and Athos was certainly not a lady.

With Athos safely horizontal, Treville ensured that both the outer and inner doors were locked. He then stripped quickly, laying his clothes over a chair beside his bed. Athos looked up at him under hooded lids, stroking his own cock lightly with his left hand. Treville joined him on the bed, taking his weight on one elbow. He laid a light kiss on Athos’ lips then took his hard cock in hand, working the foreskin up over the sensitive head, the way he knew Athos like it. The taut skin felt silky smooth against his palm and he used the moisture beading at the slit to slick his movements. When that proved not to be enough, he spat quickly into his hand.

Athos’ eyes fell shut and Treville could start to feel the tension draining out of him. Only the slight, involuntary movements of his hips betrayed the fact that Athos was even still awake. The face that so often held a cold mask of indifference was now open and unguarded, holding no pretence. He watched, entranced, as Athos’ breathing quickened and his efforts were rewarded with a quiet moan.

“Do warn me if you’re going to be sick,” Treville said quietly, pressing a light kiss to Athos’ scarred mouth.

A gentle laugh greeted his words, causing warmth to settle in Treville’s stomach. It was not too hard to draw a smile from his taciturn lieutenant, but a laugh was a rare prize, and something Treville had come to treasure, although he would admit it to no one.

He tightened his grip and moved his hand faster. This was not an occasion for finesse, not if he wanted to finish this before the drink took its toll and Athos slipped into quiet oblivion. Dipping his head, Treville took one of Athos’ hard nipples in his mouth, running his tongue over it and then nipping lightly with his teeth.

A jerk of Athos’ hips told him all he needed to know. He bit down again and then pulled back in time to watch Athos jerk up into the tight circle of Treville’s fist. Thick come shot from Athos’ cock, landing on the trail of dark hair that led from his chest to his groin. Treville watched his face at the moment of climax, seeing all tension finally drain away, leaving him looking far younger than his years as the burden of pain and guilt left him for but a moment.

Treville captured his lips and held them in a soft kiss, feeling Athos relax into his touch as exhaustion finally claimed him.

Pulling the bed covers up around the pair of them, Treville murmured, “You can return the favour in the morning, you little shit.”

As the candles burned low, Treville could have sworn that a slight smile quirked his lover’s lips even in sleep.


End file.
